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  He activated his flashlight again and examined the landing more carefully. There were four doors, each more familiar in shape than the one downstairs. Three of them possessed various markings; the fourth was absolutely plain.

  Realizing that it was just as likely that there was only one apartment on this level and three stairwells leading up, he nonetheless decided to try the unmarked door. It slid up as he approached it, revealing another narrow staircase, and he decided to keep his light on. After all, if someone was coming down while he was going up, having his light in his pocket wasn't going to keep his presence secret for very long, anyway.

  When he reached the next landing—he was annoyed but not surprised to find that it took thirty-one stairs to reach it—he came to five doors, four marked and one plain.

  Now he pulled out the map once more, turned it over, and looked at the symbols Broussard had drawn on the back.

  The teardrop signified the domicile of a communal or family group of young Blue Devils, old enough to leave home but still bound together by some social custom that was beyond the comprehension of human psychologists. That eliminated the door on the left; Vrief Domo was a mature Blue Devil with a responsible position in the government.

  He shone his line on the next door: there were seven symbols he didn't understand, and one that Broussard had duplicated. It looked like a broken dagger, or perhaps a very twisted cane. Broussard hadn't explained it, but had said that it was the most common symbol, and that for reasons that were too esoteric to go into, it wouldn't be on the door he wanted.

  That left the two right-hand doors. Each possessed the symbol that looked like a crescent moon, the one that Broussard said would signify a government employee.

  The Injun was barely able to resist the urge to curse. Two government employees! How the hell was he going to know which was the one he wanted? They looked alike, sounded like, dressed alike—and if he chose the wrong one, he'd waste so much time before he discovered his error that the Whistler could wind up so far ahead of him that he'd never catch up.

  Think, Redskin, he told himself silently. Think!

  He studied both sets of symbols, trying to find something, anything, that matched the other symbols Broussard had said might be on Vrief Domo's door. There weren't any.

  All right, he decided. Let's try it the other way around.

  He had a list of eleven symbols that would definitely not be on the door of the Blue Devil he wanted. He couldn't find any of them on the second door from the right.

  He turned his light on the right-hand door, carefully studying each symbol—and then he found it: the off-balance trapezoid with two right angles that denoted a member of the military. Both Blue Devils worked for the government—but Vrief Domo was a civil servant.

  The Injun turned his attention to the second door from the right—Vrief Domo's door. He had been prepared to spend hours decoding a computer lock, but instead all he found was a large keyhole, so large that he could insert his finger all the way through it. It took him less than thirty seconds to spring the latch, and then he was inside the Blue Devil's quarters, his body tensed, listening for any sign that his quarry might be awake.

  He remained absolutely still for almost a minute. Moonlight filtered in through the single window, and his right eye gradually adjusted to the semi-darkness. He hadn't wanted to remove the eyepatch from his prosthetic left eye, hadn't wanted 32 to have any idea of what he was doing, but he needed his depth perception, and he took the patch off and put it into a pocket.

  He took a tentative step into the room, then another, searching for the object he sought. He carefully examined the furniture, both the functional pieces and the totally incomprehensible ones, but he couldn't find it.

  There were three doorways leading from the room, in addition to the one through which he had entered. The smell of spoiling meat wafted out from the doorway on his right, and he knew that it must be the kitchen. He quickly walked to it, considered using his flashlight once he determined that the room was empty, and then decided that he'd have too much difficulty readjusting to the darkness once he left the room.

  The kitchen was small, filled with gadgets that he had never seen before, and arranged in a way that made no sense whatsoever. A slab of meat lay on a counter that had been constructed no more than eighteen inches above the floor. Chairs faced the walls, spices were piled on the floor in a corner, there was what seemed to be a sink with seven spigots, and there was nothing that remotely seemed to resemble a stove or a refrigerator. A large hectagonal chart was tacked on the wall at an odd angle; he studied it for a moment, but couldn't begin to guess whether it was a calendar, a recipe, or something else.

  Finally he returned to the room that he had originally entered, and tried to figure out which of the other two doorways led to the sleeping Vrief Domo. He paused, undecided, for almost a minute. Then he heard a gurgle of water running through a pipe off to his left, and immediately walked through the left-hand doorway.

  He found himself in a large room, and this time he had no choice but to use his flashlight, as there were no windows, and the room was set at such an angle that none of the moonlight from the first room reached it. Now that he could see clearly, he took the eyepatch out of his pocket and put it back over his left eye to prevent 32 from monitoring his actions.

  The walls were made of a beautiful alien hardwood that was streaked with various shades of brown and gold, and had intricate designs carved on each panel. The floor was covered by a hand-woven carpet; at first he thought the fabric was metallic, but then he realized that it was a finely-spun silk. There was a strong smell of chemicals in the air, and there were four large, hand-painted ceramic basins, each with drains at the bottom and gold-plated pipes running into the walls. He couldn't tell which constituted a sink, which was a commode, and which served as a tub—and he had absolutely no idea what the fourth basin was for—but there was no question in his mind that he was in a Blue Devil bathroom. There were six fixtures on the walls, none of which seemed at all functional to him—all of which glistened with a plating that seemed like a dull chrome but on closer inspection proved to be a hand-rubbed alloy, not unlike pewter.

  You guys take your ablutions seriously, I'll give you that, he thought wryly.

  There was a series of small porcelain boxes stacked against one of the walls, and he knelt down, placed the flashlight in his teeth, and began opening them one by one.

  He found what he was looking for in the third box: a large triangle, the same type that he had seen so many of the Blue Devils wearing in the street.

  He reached into another pocket and pulled out the small vial that Broussard had supplied him, opened it, and, using a clean cloth that had been supplied for this purpose, moistened it and then carefully rubbed it on the surface of the triangle. He waited a moment until it dried, then replaced the triangle in the box, put the other two boxes back the way he had found them, walked to the doorway, and shut off the flashlight.

  He waited almost two full minutes for his eyes to adjust to the filtered moonlight, then, enormously relieved that he wouldn't have to enter the sleeping Blue Devil's bedroom, carefully walked across the main room of the apartment and gently opened the door, pulling it shut behind him. He reached into the enormous keyhole and manipulated the lock back into place.

  He had no difficulty finding his way back to ground level, and a moment later he was back in the street, darting from shadow to shadow, hugging the wall as he reached the incredibly broad section, and then carefully squeezing between building as the street narrowed to less than a meter.

  Broussard was waiting for him, and he entered the vehicle with an enormous feeling of relief.

  “You did it?” asked Broussard.

  “Yeah,” replied the Injun. “You'd just better be right about it.”

  “I am,” answered Broussard confidently. “There were microscopic particles of a unique uranium isotope in that solution; some of them have to have stuck to his triangle. The rad
iation won't do him any lasting damage, but with the equipment we've got back at the embassy, we'll be able to trace him anywhere he goes.” He paused. “We'll just wait for him to pick up his next shipment of human foodstuffs at the spaceport and then follow him right to the Oracle.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said the Injun. “Now let's get the hell out of here.”

  “Right,” said Broussard, speeding off down a crazily-twisting street.

  “Take it easy,” cautioned the Injun. “I didn't risk my life back there to die in a goddamned traffic accident.”

  “I'm sorry, sir. I guess I'm a little excited.” Broussard paused. “I would think you'd be running on pure adrenaline right about now.”

  “This was just the first step. The next one might be a little more difficult.”

  “Following the Blue Devil? No problem at all, sir.”

  “The problem comes when we're all through following him,” said the Injun, and suddenly his feelings of triumph and exultation faded away as he wondered exactly what he would do once he found himself in the presence of the Oracle. Parlor tricks like the one he had pulled off tonight certainly wouldn't fool her, and he realized that it was time to begin considering exactly what would let him get close enough to her to accomplish his mission.

  Then, as he relaxed and felt the tension finally leave his muscles, an old craving returned—and with it, the germ of an plan.

  17.

  The Injun staked out the cargo area of the spaceport for four days with no success.

  On the fifth morning, Vrief Domo finally showed up.

  “He's here, sir,” announced Broussard, pointing to a blinking indicator on the control panel grid.

  “Damned near time,” said the Injun, leaning forward from the landcar's back seat to look at the blinking light. “I was starting to think the Oracle had gone on a hunger strike.”

  “He's approaching the cargo dock.”

  “How long will it take us to find out what he's picked up?”

  “We're tied in to the embassy computer, and it in turn is monitoring the spaceport's cargo manifests. I think we should have corroboration before he leaves the gate.”

  “Just be ready to move out fast,” said the Injun.

  Broussard nodded without replying, and concentrated on the panel.

  “Okay,” he announced after another two minutes. “He's made his pickup, and he's on his way out.”

  “Follow him.”

  “The embassy computer hasn't verified that he's picked up foodstuffs yet. He could be carrying almost anything.”

  “Follow him anyway,” ordered the Injun. “If he leaves the spaceport, there's no need for us to stay here—and if he's got food for the Oracle, I don't want to lose him.” He paused. “Let him get a kilometer ahead of us.”

  “I don't dare, sir,” said Broussard. “The way these streets wind, that could give him a ten-minute lead.”

  “So what?”

  “If the Oracle's not in the city, and he leaves Quichancha ten minutes before we do, he could get so far ahead of us that we lose his signal.”

  “All right,” said the Injun. “But stay far enough behind so he doesn't spot us. If he thinks he's being followed, he could lead us all over the goddamned planet, or right into a trap.”

  “I'll do my best, sir,” said Broussard, moving the car into the heavy spaceport traffic and keeping a watchful eye on his panel. Another light blinked. “The computer just confirmed it!” announced Broussard excitedly. “He picked up human food at the cargo dock.”

  The Injun made no comment, and Broussard began concentrating on his panel, making certain that he didn't lose Vrief Domo's vehicle on the small grid.

  The Blue Devil didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. He passed through a residential area, then turned to the south.

  “He's going to see her right now,” said the Injun, as the city came to a surprisingly abrupt end and they suddenly found themselves the vast expanse of red desert that had given the planet its name.

  “He could be going almost anywhere,” responded Broussard, concentrating on the narrow road that seemed so out of place on the red sand.

  The Injun shook his head. “He's going to see her,” he repeated.

  “How do you know?”

  “We know she doesn't live in the city, and we know that he's transporting food to her.” The Injun paused. “I hope you've got more fuel than he does. I'd hate to think of losing him out here—and even more, I hate to think of roasting to death in this goddamned landcar. It must be 60 degrees Celsius outside.”

  “It's not a problem, sir,” answered Broussard. “This vehicle has an auxiliary power plant that utilizes solar batteries. The one place we won't get stranded is the desert.”

  “He's not going to stay in the desert for long.”

  “Oh?” said Broussard dubiously.

  “If he was headed to the next city, it would have been more practical to ship the food via public transportation. His destination is somewhere up ahead, not too far away—and it won't be in the desert, because any structure that was built here would stand out like a sore thumb.” He pointed to some large rock outcroppings about sixteen kilometers to the southeast. “My guess is that he's heading there.”

  “It makes sense when you say it that way, sir,” admitted Broussard. “But...”

  “But you think it's too pat?”

  “Well, frankly, yes.”

  The Injun smiled. “The simpler something is, the less can go wrong with it. That applies equally to machines and hideouts.”

  Broussard shrugged. “You're the expert.”

  The Injun leaned forward again, checked the blinking light on the grid, then laid a hand gently on Broussard's shoulder. “Come to a stop.”

  “But we'll lose him. He's already eight or nine miles ahead of us.”

  “Believe me, he's going to stop at those rocks up ahead,” said the Injun. “But we're starting to raise a cloud of dust from all the sand that's blown onto the road, and I don't want him to see it.”

  “All right,” said Broussard, reluctantly slowing the vehicle to a dead stop.

  “Pull off the road.”

  Broussard shook his head. “I don't dare, sir. We'll sink into the sand.”

  “It's that soft?”

  “And that deep,”

  “I wonder how they ever managed to keep the road itself from sinking?” asked the Injun, curious.

  “Beats the hell out of me, sir.” Broussard pulled out a pair of small Antarrean cigars and offered one to the Injun. “Care for a smoke, sir?”

  “Filthy habit.”

  “Would you rather I didn't smoke?” asked Broussard.

  The Injun shrugged. “Suit yourself. I figure everyone's allowed at least one weakness.”

  Broussard stared at the cigars for a long moment, then sighed and replaced them in his tunic.

  “How long do you intend to remain here, sir?”

  “How far ahead of us is he now?”

  Broussard checked the grid. “About twelve kilometers.”

  “I suppose we might as well get going again,” said the Injun as the last of the dust cloud dissipated. “If we start raising too much dust, stop. Even if we lose him on the screen, we'll catch up with him at the rocks up ahead.”

  The vehicle began moving forward, and when they were within six kilometers of the rocky outcroppings, Broussard announced that Vrief Domo's vehicle had stopped.

  “It's somewhere in that field of rocks, as you said, sir.”

  “There's gotta be some buildings hidden in there,” said the Injun. “Is that grid of yours good enough to tell us which one he enters?”

  “No problem,” answered Broussard. “I can pinpoint his location whenever you want.”

  The Indian considered this, then shook his head. “Not good enough. If this is her headquarters, there could be half a dozen structures, and Domo could have business in three or four of them. I need to know where he drops off the food.” He paused. “Does t
he road run through the rocks, or around them?”

  “Around them.”

  “Can you tell if there's more than one building in the rocks?”

  “To be honest, sir, I didn't know there were any buildings there.”

  The Injun sighed. “Too bad. I guess we do it the hard way.”

  “The hard way?”

  “Get me as close to the rocks as you can and let me off. I've got to find out if there's more than one building, and if there is, I have to figure out which one the Oracle is in.”

  “That won't be as hard as you think, sir,” said Broussard. “The grid detaches from the control panel. You can take it with you.”

  “I'm going to carry that thing over uneven terrain in this unholy heat without being spotted by the best-protected person on the planet, and you don't think it'll be hard?” said the Injun wryly.

  “I merely meant that—”

  “Never mind, never mind,” said the Injun. “Just get me to the edge of the rocks.”

  “It's about three kilometers from one end to the other,” said Broussard as they approached the outcroppings. “Then the desert starts again. Shall I wait for you here or on the far side?”

  “Right here. I don't think we've been spotted yet. Why take any chances?”

  “Actually, sir,” said Broussard thoughtfully, “I suppose it doesn't really matter where I wait for you. If the Oracle's got the gift of precognition, as most members of the embassy seem to believe, then she knows you're here to terminate her.”

  “No she doesn't,” said the Injun confidently.

  Broussard frowned. “But—”

  “She can't foresee what was never going to happen, and I have no intention of confronting her today. I just want to know where to find her.” He stared at Broussard. “You look unconvinced.”

  “Whether you confront her today or tomorrow or next week, the end result is the same: you mean to do her harm at some point in the future. So why wouldn't she dispose of you right now, before you can threaten her?”

  “There has to be a limit to her powers,” answered the Injun. “The fact that I'm still alive means we're still beyond it.”